


Light Up

by LogicIsGod327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Stiles, Guys I did the math this is 51 percent sex, I'm so proud, Implied Werewolf!Derek, M/M, One Night Stands, One Shot, Shameless song fic, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 23:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12568988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicIsGod327/pseuds/LogicIsGod327
Summary: Called to his feet by some unseen force, Derek wanders into the night, and finds himself under the siren song of a vocalist in a three hundred year old bar in Midtown Manhattan.(Honestly guys, there was a plot, and it was kinda cool, but instead I just wrote porn with shameless soundtracking.)





	Light Up

**Author's Note:**

> My longest, most detailed, and by far best sex scene I've written yet. Advised listening is Run by Snow Patrol.

The cold air of the night washes over Derek as he steps out into the streets of Manhattan. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but he knows the brownstone he’s called home for the last eight months isn’t it. Fate calls him down the sweeping streets towards the tall, endless light of Times Square, where he finds himself swept off into a side street of Broadway, surprisingly quiet for such a dense area. It almost feels unreal, the total peace only blocks from the beating heart of New York itself. A door catches his eye, it reads ‘ _Tom’s, Established 1682.’_

Well, isn’t that shocking? A three hundred year old bar. Something calls to him, so Derek crosses the empty street and pushes the old wooden door in. A guitar is being played somewhere, the melancholy tune carrying to him. A waitress sits on her phone, but looks up at the sound of another customer entering. She grins, checks his ID, and hands him a menu.

“Just sit wherever. My name is Dana, if you need anything. It’s liquor night, so any of our liquor-based drinks are buy one, get one half off. Enjoy.” She gives a somewhat flirty smile and drifts back to her chair.

The room is mostly lit in reds and purples, a few shafts of white light marking the hallway to the restrooms, the exits, and the bar. The dance floor has enough people on it to be comfortably packed. It’s entirely couples, each of them wrapped around each other as they slow dance to the soft, sad music. The singer’s voice is a course, mellow tenor, and Derek looks up to see him.

The singer is practically a kid. His pale skin is mauve in the lighting, dotted by moles. The red stage lights make his eyes glow amber, and his neck is long, his adam’s apple bobbing as he croons into the standing mic. The kid’s hair is not quite black, standing up at a fascinating angle that Derek isn’t sure whether it’s natural, or just the result of wearing product for far too long. He’s beautiful, undeniably so. He has Cupid’s bow lips that seem to sexualize every word that crosses them, and his cheekbones are high and sharp.

He finishes his song, and speaks over the ending notes. “Thank you, everyone. We’re gonna keep it mellow by doing a cover for our closer. See if anyone remembers this one. Snow Patrol did it back in ‘04, it’s _‘Run’._ ”

The guitar starts slow and lonely, soon accompanied by a higher bass and the drums, and then the singer is sweeping in, his voice moody and breathy.

“ _I’ll sing it one last time for you, then we really have to go. You’ve been the only thing that’s right, in all I’ve done.’_

Derek’s mouth waters. Those lips are practically fellating the microphone, and his skinny jeans, which are snow white and torn to near-shreds, show off his supple ass.

“ _Light up, light up, as if you have a choice. Even if you cannot hear my voice, I’ll be right beside you dear. Louder, louder, and we’ll run for our lives, I can hardly speak, I understand, why you can’t raise your voice to say, ‘Slower, slower’. We don’t have time for that, all I want is to find an easier way, to get out of our little heads. Have heart, my dear, we’re bound to be afraid, even if it’s for a few days, making up for all this mess.”_

There’s a beauty the song that isn’t lost on Derek. He heard it a few times, when he was just a kid, but he decides this is by far the best version he’s ever had ringing through his ears. As he sits at the table outside the dance area, watching, Derek is almost too enraptured to realize the singer is looking directly at him. He winks, and then goes into the chorus once again, never breaking his eyes from Derek’s.

Finally, it wraps to a close. The entire club begins clapping, and the singer smirks as he bows, exchanging high fives with his band mates and rapidly draining a bottle of water. Derek’s trance seems to have been broken, and, chagrined, he saddles to the bar, ordering a vodka on the rocks.

A voice breaks over his shoulder. “Make that two, Tommy. And cover his with mine.”

Even without the echo of the microphone, Derek can recognize the singer’s voice. “Thanks.” He says, sipping on the drink and savoring the burn as it goes down to his stomach.

“You know,” The singer drawls, “In most places, what you spent the last six minutes doing would probably be considered eye-fucking. Maybe more than that. Eye-love making. Too tender, too much fire for just fucking. Some serious art to the look, though. That stare was pretty damn distracting.”

Derek shrugs, trying to play it cool. “It was a good song.”

“A good song doesn’t make you look like you want to pin me to a wall and never let me go.” He laughs. “I’m Stiles, by the way.” He drains his vodka in a single go, like a giant shot.

“Derek.” He replies. “And maybe I want to pin you to a wall.”

Stiles laughs. “Normally, no one is this forward. I like it.”

He follows suit, slugging back his drink. “I pride myself on not playing hard to get.”

“So you’re saying you’re easy?”

“Maybe just a little.”

The kid laughs again, full bellied and joyous. It makes something primal run through Derek. He knows how he wants this to end, that he wants this captivating creature between his sheets, splaying a hand at the junction of his shoulder blades and pressing him down into the mattress. He wants him in a way he hasn’t wanted anyone in a while.

“Lucky for you,” Stiles continues, “I’m a little easy, myself.”

Derek steels himself, and suggests it. “In that case, why don’t we clear this place out? I live up in Midtown, we can head back to mine.”

Stiles appraises him. “You promise you’re not some charming serial killer luring me to my untimely doom? Because, if you are, that cliché is so overplayed and you need to find a new schtick.”

“I promise I’m not a serial killer, or a cliché.” Derek swears, crossing his heart sarcastically.

Stiles gives him that inspecting stare again, and shrugs, slipping out his phone. He shoots a quick text to what Derek assumes is one of his band mates, catching a glimpse of the name Scotty at the top of his iMessage.

Stiles stands, and motions for Derek to follow. He leads him to the door, and they step back in the early January air.

“My place is pretty crowded, so it’ll have to be yours. You said you live in Midtown?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods. “Washington Square.”

“Shit.” Stiles whistles. “You afford that place on your own?”

“Hardly.” The other man snorts. “I’m renting from a relative. I couldn’t afford a cardboard box in that neighborhood, let alone a brownstone.”

“‘No shit! Me and a few others live in some hole in the wall on Christopher Street. Starving artists in the gayborhood and all.”

Derek looks him up and down. “You _are_ pretty skinny.”

“Oh, Jesus!” Stiles groans. “Not you, too! You’re as bad as my father. And why did you walk all the way to Tom’s from Washington Square?! There’s like 800 bars between here and there!”

“We can hail a cab if you want.”

“No, it’s fine.” Stiles seems hesitant for a moment, but reaches out, grabbing Derek’s gloved hand with his own cotton-garbed one.

The rest of the walk is in relative silence, exchanging intermittent polite chatter, but mostly silence as they watch the off passerby and cab zooming through, the city that never sleeps in its most sedate form, not so different from the moments before sleep, the barely conscious state where anything is possible, and the waking and dreaming worlds are one and the same.

They arrive to Derek’s brownstone, each hanging their coat on the rack. The place is comfortably decorated, with plush chairs and several paintings on the walls. He notices a fully stocked floor-to-ceiling bookshelf against one wall, and a collection of plants along the various windowsills. Stiles takes note of a cluttered desk in an office through one open door, a miniature United Nations flag on a stand.

“You work for the UN?” He asks.

“Yep. I’m an assistant to Ambassador Kelly. Not _the_ assistant, but I ferry papers between the Secretariat and the embassy, arrange meetings, sit in at the General Assembly and Security Council meetings.”

Stiles’ eyes are wide. “I’m feeling a little intimidated. You’re gorgeous, have a glorious house, _and_ a government job? You sure you’re not a serial killer? There’s gotta be a flaw.”

“My sister says I have no sense of humor whatsoever, and that my eyebrows are, ‘ _Perpetually angry.’”_

Stiles grins. “I find your angry eyebrows sexy.”

Derek raises one such eyebrow. “Do you, now?” He steps closer.

“Yeah. And just about everything else, too.” He replies, closing the distance and grabbing Derek’s waist.

He kisses Stiles with surprising chasteness, gently caressing his lips against his own. One of his hands cups his cheeks, and the other is placed at the small of Stiles’ back, pressing his body flush against Derek’s. They stand like that for a moment, testing the waters, before Stiles takes the initiative.

He lets his tongue glide out, gently poking against Derek’s lips, which open, and then their tongues are meeting, the kiss deepening. Stiles relishes the soft burn of Derek’s stubble against his cheeks, as well as the feeling of his hands slinking into deeper territory. His own hands follow suit, one reaching down to grope at Derek’s firm ass, the other sliding beneath his shirt and skimming along the soft, warm flesh of his stomach.

Derek groans softly into Stiles’ mouth as he steers them towards the stairs, still attached at the lips as they walk. Derek runs up the stairs, his hand still holding Stiles’, leading him down a dimly lit hallway to a master bedroom. He barely has time to appreciate the midnight blue bedspread before Derek is pushing him onto the plush mattress, his tongue again forging its way into his mouth. Stiles groans into the kiss, tugging at Derek’s shirt.

“Off, off.” He demands, breaking the kiss. Derek complies, and a high whine escapes Stiles’ mouth. “Oh, jackpot.” He whispers reverently.

“Glad you think so.” Derek grins, easily divesting Stiles of his own shirt. He appreciates the view for a moment before he dives in, nipping at his collarbones, sucking and worrying until a matching set of marks blossoms across his collar, vivid and bright purple, even in the muted light of a single bedside lamp.

He continues his path down other man’s chest, stopping and licking at each nipple, and relishing the gasps and groans it pulls from Stiles. Derek begins to tweak the other nipple with his left hand, the right one venturing along the gentle plain of his lover’s stomach, gently squeezing at the bulge in his jeans that are so tight Derek wonders how he’ll ever get Stiles out of them.

Stiles pulls him off, dragging him up for a brutal kiss that’s more gnashing teeth and what he suspects is a bit of blood than any actual coordination. As they kiss, he reaches down to unbutton Derek’s pants and unzip him, his hand faltering as he comes into contact with the thatch of Derek’s pubic hair rather than underwear.

“Dude, are you going commando?” He whispers.

“I usually do.”

Stiles has to restrain himself from creaming his jeans. “Oh my fucking God, that is so hot.” He says, unbuttoning his own jeans and slipping them down, only getting caught once as the right leg inverts on the way down. The uncoordinated move draws a laugh from Derek, and Stiles responds with a withering glare, though the effect is lost in light of the flush that reaches to his chest, and the utterly debauched way his hair sticks in all directions.

The pants debacle solved, Stiles proceeds to draw Derek back in, slipping his hand into the unbuttoned jeans and wrapping his long fingers around the velvet warmth of Derek’s prick. He draws it out, giving a few experimental tugs, gauging Derek’s reaction. He hasn’t caught a look at it, but Stiles can feel it’s of a decent girth, curving slightly upward. He’s uncut, the smooth motion of the skin sliding over Derek’s head as he pumps. Derek scrambles to rip of Stiles’ boxers, wrapping his own hand around him. They jerk each other off in unison for a period, muffling their moans into the kiss.

Finally, Derek breaks away, gently tugging Stiles away from him. He slides back down, slinking across the slighter form, and finds himself face to face with Stiles’ cock. It tends more towards length than width, loosely circumcised with enough skin to allow for movement. Stiles keeps his pubes trimmed but not shaven, contrasted to the dense patch of hair that Derek has never taken a razor to. He fondles the shorter man’s balls, pressing a kiss to his leaking tip. The bittersweet flavor of precum bursts across Derek’s tongue, and he glides the spongy flesh into his mouth, sucking lightly.

Stiles is in heaven. He’s so keyed up that every sensation is cranked to the maximum, and the soft, warm wetness of Derek’s mouth has erased any trace of sentience. Even in his world of animal instinct, he has a vision of the words ‘ _Software Updating_ ’ blinking across his forehead, a thousand yard stare in his eyes as Derek goes to town, taking him to the root with ease, swallowing around his cock.

“Jesus _fuck!”_ He slurs, threading his fingers into Derek’s inky tresses.

Derek, for his part, only moans, sending vibrations down his length that sets his already boiling blood to vapor in his veins. Stiles can see the end, feel the telltale signs of completion starting in his lower back, when Derek’s gone, his dick exposed to the open air. Instantly, the feeling is gone, and he’s about to complain before Derek is sliding lower, and _oh my fucking God_ , he’s gone.

Derek presses his tongue flat against Stiles’ core, parting his ass and devouring like a man starved. He alternates, broad stripes and sharp jabs into his interior that drive Stiles mad, and he relishes the whines and moans that grow in frequency and pitch, Stiles almost begging for more. Stiles neglects his own cock, allowing it rest against his stomach and weep tacky fluid profusely onto his skin. Derek breaks off again, looking up at Stiles from between the man’s legs.

“Can I fuck you? I really wanna fuck you.” He asks, all eager eyes and an almost pleading smile.

Stiles nods so rapidly Derek fears he’ll get whiplash. “Yes. Please. All the fucking. All of it. Like, now.” He blurts out the fragmentary statements.

Derek rises from the bed, heading to his dresser. He returns with a tube of lubricant, the brightly colored bottle missing a bit from the top, but still mostly full. He spreads the fluid across his fingers, and presses them to Stiles’ hole, circling around his perineum. He locks eyes with Stiles once more, and, upon receiving one final nod, he presses the digit in, feeling the sweltering heat and vice-like tightness of the man’s interior.

Derek has big fingers. Like, _really_ big fingers. The long, elegant kind that would make the most accomplished piano players jealous. Stiles can’t help but laugh upon the realization that he’s been fucked by men smaller than Derek’s pointer finger. Derek shoots him a confused look, not having heard a word of Stiles’ internal monologue.

“Nothing, nothing, I’ll tell you later.” He grins, leaning up to kiss Derek, and relishing the feeling of his long digit sliding along his insides. Derek slowly begins moving in and out with his single finger, swirling around to try and ease the way as best he can. After a few minutes, Stiles asks for a second.

When the blunt pad of Derek’s middle finger presses in slowly, that’s where Stiles starts to feel it in less than pleasant terms. Derek’s fingers are thicker than his own, and it’s been awhile since he’s bottomed. Stiles is unused to being filled like this. Suddenly, Derek curls the two digits and brushes against his prostate. He jackknifes down on the fingers, moaning loudly as his nerves positively sing in joy. Derek continues to gently press against the bundle of nerves, and Stiles’ neglected dick, having slipped down to half-hardness, rapidly refills, standing proud against his stomach and weeping translucent fluid once more.

Derek looks to Stiles, kissing him gently. “One more baby, one more.” He says, sliding the third finger in.

“Shit!” Stiles whispers, this time in pleasure. He’s almost crying he feels so full. It’s been too long, and the prickling at the corners of his eyes is a testament to that.

Derek doesn’t dawdle anymore. He’s just as eager as Stiles is, and the preparation is efficiently completed. The man whines in dissatisfaction as Derek’s fingers depart from his hole. He spreads the lubricant along the length of his cock, and presses the blunt head against Stiles’ ass, locking eyes once more with his lover.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“ _Please!”_ Stiles nearly begs.

That’s all he needs. Derek presses in, and Stiles takes him beautifully, his body almost welcoming the intrusion. He’s so tight and so warm, Derek wonders how he’ll last, the way Stiles’ walls cling to him, hold him steady. At last, at last, _at fucking last_ , he’s into the hilt. Stiles lays on his back, legs spread wide, a vision of debauchery on a background of trashed navy blue sheets and badly messed up pillows. He’s beautiful.

Derek is thick, thicker than most, Stiles would wager. Just him sliding in has made his blood pressure rise, clouded his brain even further with lust. Derek hasn’t even moved yet, and he’s gone. It hasn’t been this intense for him in a long, long time, maybe not since his first time. Derek’s cock is almost made just to drive Stiles to the brink of madness, it seems.

“I’m gonna move.” Derek warns. And move he does. Gently, at first, half-aborted thrusts that make Stiles smolder, not quite setting him ablaze. He’s letting him get used to the sensation. For the first few moments, he’s gentle, whispering such sweet words to Stiles as he rocks into him. He tells him how beautiful he is, how good he’s taking him, how wonderful it feels to be seated inside of him. Derek acts like he’s something precious, cradles him gently in his arms as he picks up speed.

Stiles reaches down, grabbing his prick and jerking himself off with rapidity as Derek’s thrust grow in depth and frequency. There’s power and weight behind those thrusts, as well as the burning heat of Derek’s body. Sweat pools on both of them as Derek suddenly stops, his head the only part of his cock still inside Stiles, and then slams back in violently, jolting Stiles and sending him into a tailspin of pleasure.

It goes on. Derek fucks him amazingly, alternating between brutal thrusts that knock Stiles’ world on its axis and gently love making that sets it right back spinning again. It’s wonderful, but he can only take so much. He’s abandoned masturbating himself, instead occupying his hands with raking his nails down Derek’s back. His cock lays between them, sometimes pressed tight between their stomachs when Derek leans in to claim his mouth, other times bouncing freely and drooling precum as he’s rocked around and forced to hang on for dear life. Just as suddenly, Derek’s thrusts grow urgent, faster and less coordinated, and he sweeps up some lubricant from where they’re joined, wrapping a slick hand around Stiles and jacking him in tandem with his thrusts.

Whether it’s the streetlights or some other source, Stiles could swear Derek’s eyes flash sunfire gold for a moment as he reaches the final stretch before climax, but it’s so there-and-gone that it could just as easily have been in illusion.

“Oh, fuck, Stiles, oh!” And then Derek is pressing as deeply as he can, and Stiles can feel him pulsing within him, can feel the rush of slick as Derek finishes himself off. Moreover, he’s gorgeous. Derek has the most wonderful orgasm face he’s ever seen, even in porn, and Stiles loves it. Derek finishes, catching his breath. He leans down to kiss Stiles, and, still hard, he thrusts a few more times, his lubricated hand bringing his companion home.

Stiles breaks the kiss, keening and arching off of the bed, and he’s gone, he’s atomized, he’s in another dimension. Time and space have no meaning, Stiles is transcendent, and then he’s back again, having succeeded in cumming so hard that he can feel his genetic material staining his forehead, and a bead of it drips from one strand of hair that managed to stay aloft despite Derek’s best efforts to trash his hairstyle.

Derek kisses him once of the lips, and exits the room, returning with wet wipes that he uses to clean them both. Satisfied, he climbs up onto the sheets that positively reek of sex, and pulls Stiles close, settling him into his side and wrapping a leg around his. It’s pretty clear he won’t escape Derek’s clutches for the duration of the night, and Stiles is perfectly okay with that.

“Good night.” Derek whispers.

“Night.” He replies.

Dawn comes lazily, a rare day of midwinter overcast, a gentle drizzle falling on and off. Derek is alone when he wakes, Stiles’ side of the bed cold. He fears that the man has left, but he hears something, a trace of music and the sound of a whisk in a metal bowl. Stiles has made him breakfast.

He finds a pair of lounge pants and slips them on, padding downstairs to see Stiles there in the kitchen, the music having been a commercial, his small flatscreen he keeps on the counter turned to the news.

Stiles looks up, and flashes a million watt smile at him. “Morning!” He greets. “Hope you don’t mind, I had to sort a bit to find all this.”

“It’s fine.” Derek smiles back. “You didn’t have to do this. I don’t expect you to cook just because you stayed the night.”

“Oh, please. This is ‘ _thanks for the best sex I’ve had in years_ ’  food. I seriously have not gotten laid so good since I was like sixteen.” He snorts, dumping scrambled eggs into a bowl.

Derek reaches down, grabbing another pan and spreading some olive oil on it. He reaches into a cupboard and grabs a handful of spaces, and a bag of potatoes from another.

“The least I can do is help you. I’ll make some hash browns.” He offers.

Later, the two sit in companionable silence as they eat. Stiles looks up at Derek, and takes a steadying breath.

“Hey, so, uh…” He pauses, uncertain. “We’re performing at this club in Brooklyn next Friday, and I’d love if you could come, maybe meet Scott and Lydia. If you’re not busy, of course, I can understand with your work and all.”

Derek chuckles. “I have Friday through Sunday off every week, unless there’s an emergency meeting of the security council. I can definitely make it.”

“Awesome.” Stiles says.

“Awesome.” Derek repeats back.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a review. My desktop doesn't have internet right now, so posts will be very sporadic until I finish fighting with Spectrum. God, cable companies blow.


End file.
